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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27197866">A Letter of Specifics</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fictropes/pseuds/Fictropes'>Fictropes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Soulmate AU, Strangers to Lovers, infact unrealistically quick... but it's dnp so actually..that's reality., the complete opposite of a slow burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 17:09:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,067</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27197866</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fictropes/pseuds/Fictropes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You'll know it's your soulmate because no one else on earth could be doing what they're doing.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dan Howell/Phil Lester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>140</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Letter of Specifics</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>the soulmate au i obviously always had 2 write</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s all about the specifics when it comes to love— at least now, at least in this world. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He gets the letter on his eleventh birthday, his mum hides it away and tells him he can’t open it until he’s sixteen— he doesn’t know what it is, only that it’s important in some way. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There are kids at school who’ve opened this letter, who are always on the lookout for<em> something. </em>For a girl tripping up the stairs whilst wearing a red spotty dress, for a boy with blond hair and a nose piercing smoking on top of a roof— for something <em>specific. </em></span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Phil figures it out when he’s thirteen, when he finally starts speaking to people, when he starts spending all his time online wondering why people are so desperately searching for something that sounds so unbelievable— something that has to be made up. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The letter that’s hidden up in Phil’s house is apparently about this love of his life— how he’ll meet them, what they’ll be doing, the specifics which promise it’s<em> them.</em></span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Apparently it’s rare you’ll ever actually find them. Rare that you’ll find that boy with shoes two sizes too big falling over in the street, that girl with dyed pink hair trying to buy an exotic parrot at Tesco whilst drunk. It’s too specific, too.. made up. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Phil fucking clings to it, though. The idea that there’s this perfect someone out there for him, that someone will love him despite everything— despite how he is, how he can be. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He follows his mum around until she gives in, until he’s fourteen and she hands it to him with a warning of it not being a promise. That she and his dad got lucky when they found each other. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Brown hair, wearing all black, crying in the cheese aisle. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>-</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Phil is thirty-three now. He’s had<em> things,</em> things he can’t commit to forever when his potential actual forever is out there. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He has to know, he has to know if the stories are as grand as they sound. If you just know, know that they're it for you— they’re the one person on earth who will <em>understand. </em></span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His mum tells him constantly to stop romanticising it so much, that it can just be platonic— that they universe might be wrong. They could hate you, you could hate them, it could be a specific scenario they leads to a life long arch-enemy as opposed to a life long lover. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But Phil doesn’t know that, not yet, and that’s the issue. Before he moves on with someone else, before he lets <em>things </em>go on for longer than he has been. It's not that he doesn't try, because he does, puts his all into every relationship he's been in but they always fizzle out in the end. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">These lingering relationship, these people, have always had something of an issue with him. Wanted something about Phil to change, something beyond the minor— they way he leaves cupboards open, the three towels after a shower. They’ve all wanted to change something fundamental, and Phil thinks you can’t change something as big as <em>who</em> you are. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He wants someone to accept the major, be willing to work with him on the minor. And surely that should be them, shouldn’t it? His soulmate. And he’ll stop opening cupboards as long as they accept him, as long as they never ask him to destroy a part of himself.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He has friends who have met the one, who all emerge with a weird glow— with a sense of belonging. He fishes for details, fishes for meaning behind the encounter. Maybe if he was doing something different, something else, he’d find them. He always gets the same answer— <em>it was just random, mate.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And Phil thinks the world is awfully unfair, actually. People who weren't even searching found the <em>one,</em>leaving Phil behind to linger for too long in supermarkets.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s thirty-three now, and he thinks he’s getting too old for this. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">-</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Phil spends a lot of times in supermarkets, he’s seen a lot of things, but never the one thing he actually wants to see. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s a bit unremarkable when it happens. It's a Monday afternoon, raining outside and it may as well be raining in tesco, too. Everyone looks so miserable—upset to be outside. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He turns left, walks towards the cheese aisle and— there he is. Brown hair, wearingall black, crying in front of some mozzarella . </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Phil feels like a bit of a bridge troll, stood at the end of the aisle wearing what’s technically a pyjama top. Sure the guys crying in the middle of the cheese aisle but he’s doing it well— in a high fashion sort of way. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s the oddest sensation in his chest, like something scrambling to break free and run. Run towards him, to comfort him, to check he’s ok. He can’t seem to step to the left, nor to the right. Feet set on only moving him forwards, forward at such a rate that the basket in his hand swings with reckless abandon as he breaks out into, what can only be described, as a power walk.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then before he knows it he’s stood behind him, smacking him in the back of the legs with metal and the singular packet of marshmallows he’d picked up on the way round. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m so—</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course i’d meet—“</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><br/>
<br/>
The both say at the same time, both cut off to let the other speak and end up in a weird stand-off. They just both end up speaking over each other again, the man eventually turning to stare Phil down. “Go on.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><br/>
<br/>
“I’m sorry.” He gets out, even though his mouth feels dry— even though words are hard when he <em>looks</em> like that.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“My turn?” He asks, the confidence knocking Phil back considering the situation— considering he has tear tracks on his cheeks, considering his eyes are still red. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh— yeah. Sure.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><br/>
<br/>
“I was gonna say, of course i’d meet you when I was crying in the fucking cheese aisle.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And Phil thinks it’s always been a bit of an odd thing. He hates cheese, sure, but he’s never purposely sought it out just to cry over. Never thought today i’ll go to Tesco and make my hatred public. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ha, yeah.” Phil’s adds lamely, even though he’s rehearsed this moment a thousand times over. Even though he’s stood in front of his bathroom mirror speaking the words he’s never said out-loud to anyone else, even though he’s spent nights with a head full of thoughts that he’s never said out-loud at all.“I hate cheese but i’ve never actively cried over it.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?” He demands, all outraged even though it was him who’d started this entire thing. “You hate cheese? Mate, we can’t be destined for each other.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><br/>
<br/>
He’s joking, so clearly joking, but it still makes something inside of Phil shatter— until he remembers it’s a minor, not a major. “My tastebuds reject the texture.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><br/>
<br/>
He softens, looks a bit delighted. “Yeah-huh. What else do your taste-buds hate?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><br/>
<br/>
“I mean— not much. Actually! Pumkpin spice pizza is properly disgusting, zero out of ten stars from this guy.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What the fuck? Why are you.. coffee? We should go get coffee, right?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">-</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They get coffee. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He finds out he’s called Dan, he’s twenty nine, he’s a journalist for some fancy newspaper Phil has never even heard of. Writes about serious things, about things that make Phil feel a little dizzy as he glosses over an article. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He’s pretty, too. So fucking gorgeous. Phil almost wants to turn around and go back home, put some fancier clothes on, spray that cologne he only uses on special occasions. But Dan sits him down, he gives him a pumpkin spice latte that he promises will taste nicer than the pizza. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hi.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hi.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“This is properly insane, isn’t it? Like, have you seen the fucking odds online? I only know one other person who’s actually done this.” Dan talks with his hands, big gestures that Phil eats up— follows with his eyes desperately. He wants to remember everything about him, wishes he could draw so he could sketch out the laughter lines— the dimples that cave every time Phil makes him smile. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He might ask for a photo, doesn’t know if that’s creepy. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is it weird that I think I always knew? Like I think I was supposed to meet you, for reasons bigger than everyone else’s.” Phil wants to cram the words back down his throat, wonders if it’s possible to come on too strong to your literal soulmate. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah? Saying this was written in the stars <em>twice?</em>” But he takes it well, he takes it beautifully.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Maybe, yeah. I do have the psychic gift.” Phil tells him, solemn even in the face of Dan’s loud cackle. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You do not! That’s made up, shutup.” It’s not unkind, though— not in the way that other people had been before. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey!” Phil whines, downing his coffee in a way that makes Dan’s eyes bulge out of his head. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How can your tastebuds not like cheese when you don’t have any actual tastebuds! I asked for them to be made extra hot and everything.” Dan takes a tentative sip of his own, entire face screwing up at the heat. “You’ve got to have burnt them all off.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><br/>
“Not my fault your tongue is weak.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Isn’t.” Dan replies—replies with a cheeky little tone that makes Phil blush. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He can't help but feel unimpressive, sat here with this man who seems larger than anything Phil has ever encountered before. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey.” He gets a light kick to the shin. “You alright? I promise you don’t— you haven’t got to put on a show or anything. We can just talk.” And maybe Dan’s the psychic one, or maybe it’s all true— maybe your soulmate has a sixth sense specifically designed for you. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry, sorry. I just get in my own head sometimes. I always thought i’d be this big.. I don’t know, all confident. I thought i’d meet you and know exactly what to do and what to say, but honestly i’m a bit overwhelmed.” Phil admits, squeezes his paper cup until the lid pops off. There are people sat all around him, people who don’t understand the magnitude of what is happening just a couple of seats away. “You’re— you know.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I get it.” Dan smiles, reaches out before thinking better of it— tucks his hands into the sleeve of his jumper instead. “I promise i’m nervous and that’s why i’m talking a mile a minute, I don’t really know what i’m doing either.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It breaks something in Phil— all the tension, all the fear of not being enough. It’s a moment that just exists, nothing special about it because it was something that was always supposed to happen. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m giving you this impression that i’m not actually unhinged.” Phil laughs. “Which I am, ask anyone.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><br/>
<br/>
“Anyone?” Dan asks, a challenge in his voice. “Just walk up to anyone in the street and say hey do you think this Phil dude is unhinged.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><br/>
<br/>
“No! You know what I meant, anyone I <em>know</em>.” It makes Phil laugh though, makes him hide his smile behind his palm and near jump out of his skin when Dan reaches out to remove it. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s a moment so tender, so startlingly intimate that Phil doesn’t even know what to do with himself. He just stares at Dan who stares back— who pulls sillier and sillier faces until Phil laughs again. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I like your smile.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><br/>
<br/>
“Oh.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Who taught you to hide it?” Dan asks, casually— like it doesn’t make Phil’s heart pound. Like he doesn’t feel so seen that he almost wonders if he’s grown three times in size, if he’s got a giant poster stuck to his forehead declaring all his fears, his likes, his wants. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just a weird kid at school, hard to unlearn stuff.” Phil shrugs, turns it back on Dan with a question, “why were you crying in the cheese aisle?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The old uno reverse card, huh?” He pauses for a moment, bites at the edge of his thumb nail as he decides just how much to say. He finally drinks more than a mouthful, and Phil’s a bit obsessed with the way his adam’s apple bobs in his throat.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You don’t have to tell me.” Phil tacks on, because this whole soulmate business doesn’t give him the right to know— the right to demand everything. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s fine, just thinking about how to sound like less of a loser.” Dan snorts, “I’m just overwhelmed, I think. I was working from home before I got this promotion,I just had a little thing, now it’s a massive huge thing and I was just stood there in front of all this cheese like what can I have for dinner? Because there are so many options, and suddenly that felt overwhelming, too. I just don’t know if i’m cut out for this new job, is what i’m trying to say. If I can’t decide what to cook for dinner, then who am I to tell people how to cope, you know?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I get that, change can be a lot, but can I be honest? That one article I just read blew my odd socks, off. I think you’re more than cut out for it.” It had, honestly. Phil was a bit in awe of him, his way with words. He tries to remember the last time he wrote anything, probably thinks it was a letter to ribena asking them to please bring back the old recipe. “Just give it a bit of time, everything always feel like too much at first.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Gonna hold my hand every time I have a breakdown at three am, Mr Soulmate?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dunno, you look like you’ll get kinda sweaty palms.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not into sweaty men?”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Very much into sweaty men, Daniel.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Phil stops feeling so desperate to impress then, more content with being himself— because isn't that what he's always wanted? To be himself and to be loved for it.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">-</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Fuck off, you’re like properly famous!” Dan’s close to whining, scrolling through Phil’s youtube channel with a little pout. “You sat there and let me ramble on like you weren’t literally.. Phil!”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not properly famous, if I were properly famous you would’ve heard of me.” Phil points out, though he does feel a little stab of pride— Dan seems properly in awe. “Watch them in your own time, not in the middle of starbucks, you loon.” Because he can hear his own voice coming back at him, makes a grab for Dan’s phone but just ends up nearly winding himself the edge of the table.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Careful, silly.” Dan locks his iphone, just to check Phil hadn’t died. “I will very much be watching them in my own time.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ew.” Phil scrunches his nose, Dan’s a bastard and just winks in return. “Anyway, what’d your letter say?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tall, black hair, smacks you with a basket.” Which really leaves no room for doubt, the specifics really are… specific. “Guessing yours was something about a weirdo mourning over a block of cheddar?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><br/>
<br/>
“Brown hair, all black, crying in the cheese aisle.” Phil confirms, then he decides to be bold. “It should’ve also warned me about how gorgeous you are.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><br/>
<br/>
“Oh god.” Dan sighs— more of a half whine half sob. He buries his face in his hands, hiding the blush Phil had seen for a split second. “Shutup. I’m not crying twice today.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I have tissues.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nooo, stop bullying me.” He emerges from his little cocoon, takes Phil’s breath away for the second time. “Just for the record, you’re doing it for me, too.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><br/>
<br/>
“Doing— at least I was romantic about it!” It does make Phil’s heart flip, though, knowing Dan’s not just sat here because he feels like he has to be.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That was romantic, actually. I’m the king of romance, waited for my literal soulmate after all, didn’t I?” Dan asks, raising an eyebrow that Phil takes in the wrong way. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Waited.. you like? You haven’t—“ he makes a lewd hand gesture, one that doesn’t belong in a Starbucks at six in the evening.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Phil! Put your filthy little hands down,” then he leans in, all soft and gentle as he says, “yes, Phil, i’ve been fucked.” And that doesn’t deserve soft and gentle, not if the flip of Phil’s stomach is anything to go by.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s what you made it sound like.” His voice is about ten times louder than Dan’s, a few people turn to look at them being loud freaks in the corner. He thinks they’d all understand if they knew—knew this was the first time for two soulmates.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Stop screaming, you menace. Please use your inside voice, not your youtube presenter voice.” Dan sounds fond— makes Phil hope. “Anyway, is that really the pinnacle of romance for you? Getting fucked?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No. Anyway. ’m not screaming, i’m just pointing out your mistakes in a loud manner.” Phil explains, speaking how you would to a customer who’s pissing you off—<em> no ma’am i’m not lying to you, we don’t have hidden secret stock in the back. </em></span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dan just mocks him, repeats it back absolutely perfectly. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That’s it. I’m leaving.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Taking me with you?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I— yeah, god, yeah.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They don’t actually leave for another hour, because Dan has a half a coffee left and Phil’s stomach had began to growl. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They talk about everything and nothing in particular, learn they have an awful lot in common- but the things they don’t have in common are ok, too.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Phil is content to listen to Dan be passionate about things he doesn’t understand— because watching the people you love be excited is just.. magical. Not that he can say he’s in love yet, he just knows that this is his human, that this is the one for him and they’ll work at it— figure it all out together. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They end up leaving when the person behind the bar starts crashing around in a non-verbal <em>we’re closing soon</em> signal. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dan doesn’t seem intent on leaving, so Phil let’s him stay.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">-</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The search of Phil’s apartment is essentially police crime scene level high. Dan turns over all his little knick-knacks, ends up alphabetising his dvds because apparently they were <em>pissing him off. </em></span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You done?” Phil asks, leant against the doorway of his bedroom— watching Dan slam his underwear drawer shut.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Just checking you didn’t have loads of tool in here to murder me. Fun dildo.” He smiles, that stupid yodelling pickle in his hand. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That is not, you know it’s not.” Phil can’t even bring himself to be anything but fond, even when Dan’s looking at him with all this pure cheek. “The real one is under my bed.”<br/>
</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh!” Dan laughs, throwing his head back and revealing a long expanse of throat that Phil— he wants to <em>bite</em>. “Wasn’t expecting that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><br/>
<br/>
“Why? It’s hardly unusual. Where do you keep yours? In a bird bath on a balcony?” He takes a step closer, just wants to swipe the pickle away before it starts singing. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You <em>know</em> what I meant.” Dan takes Phil’s movements to mean something different, bites his lip as he he meets him halfway. “Hi.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Er— hi. Can I just..” He takes it from Dan’s hand, tucks it into his hoodie pocket so he can hide it away later. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We really do have a lot in common, huh? Weren’t lying about your likes to impress me earlier. Muse is like top of my list for things people have to like.” He’s speaking quietly— like they’re in a crowded room and he wants only Phil to hear him. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah? Your snooping given you all the results you wanted?” And now Phil wants whatever Dan wants, too. Feels drawn to him— like those two definitely gay swans he saw last week at the lake.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mhm, I think I can work with this.” Dan smiles, and it’s a smile Phil thinks he’s been missing out on for his entire life— wants to make sure he sees it constantly now. “I thought maybe we’d meet and I wouldn’t actually feel anything at all, but I feel something. I don’t really know what is it yet, but it’s there, more than anything i’ve ever felt in my life.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><br/>
<br/>
Phil nods, gets it, can’t describe the feeling inside his heart, can't describe the way his brain has been quieter than usual since they met— something about Dan makes him feel calmer. “I’ve tried out the whole relationship thing before, you know? But it never felt like how I thought it should. Everyone always— they said I needed to change if I wanted them to stay.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Change?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah— and I mean, i’m willing to compromise, of course. They just wanted my actual personality to change wanted me to be less weird, less annoying, be an entire different person to be worthy of their love.” He doesn’t know where this is all coming from, all these grand confessions that easily fall out of his mouth and onto the floor at Dan’s feet. It’s just <em>easy. </em></span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Then they were never right for you, good job you ended up watching me cry at tesco.” Dan's laugh is an easy one, and the moment is both charged and gentle— ajuxtaposition that somehow works for them. “I think compromise is good, but changing annoying habits is different to changing an entire person, isn’t it? Like.. obviously i’ll have to make you like cheese, but I wouldn’t want you to be less you.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And I think they never worked because deep down I believed someone was out there who’d accept all my major things, like oh he’s a bit unhinged but that’s alright. I like to pee with the door open in case ghosts are in the bathroom.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dan just flicks him on the chin, leans in but still doesn’t close the gap. “Less likely to get you if they think someone else can see?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><br/>
<br/>
“I just don’t wanna lose control of the.. like the stream, like the idea of my dead body being found in a puddle of my own piss isn’t my idea of death.” Phil explains— clearly, like this is a thought everyone else on planet earth has had. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can I..” Dan starts, then thinks better of it— then decides actually, “what is your idea of death?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Obviously I die running into a burning building to save a million dogs. The dogs all survive, and I die a furry hero.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Might wanna re-think your wording there.” Dan makes a noise that can only be described as a giggle, and their close enough that Phil can feel the sound— the sound of his happiness. “Furry hero sounds a bit.. something else.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><br/>
<br/>
“Maybe I want it to sound like that.” He shrugs, tilts his head because he really, really wants now. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re awfully close there, Philly. Wanna kiss me and see if you get the whole foot pop thingy?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No.” Phil shakes his head, immediately resumes his previous position of as close to Dan as he can humanly possibly get. “That’s not an actual thing.” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, so you just wanna kiss me, huh?” </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Who wouldn’t want to kiss you?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><br/>
<br/>
“Many people.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><br/>
<br/>
“Well, many people are stupid.”</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And it’s Phil who breaks first. Phil who cups Dan’s cheek with his palm and closes the barely existent gap. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s a kiss that feels like coming home— a kiss that was always supposed to happen. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dan has a hand under Phil’s t-shirt, hand splayed out over his hip and the contact feels like nothing Phil’s ever felt before— something he can’t name, something that’s too big to even try to give meaning to. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He doesn’t know how long it goes on— a minute, an hour, an entire lifetime. The concept of time loses all meaning, apparently. All Phil knows is real is Dan.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His foot doesn’t pop but his heart sighs happily, settles down in his chest in a way it never has before.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So, that’s a soulmate kiss, huh? No wonder they always look so fucking smug.” Dan’s the first to pull away, just because he wants to look into Phil’s eyes and map out all the colours. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dan’s the first one to think this is love— that it would’ve been love even if it hadn’t been written in the stars. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://fictropes.tumblr.com/post/632987273006399488/a-letter-of-specificscomplete-4041youll-know">if you wanna reblog on tumblr,always appreciate it!</a>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>as always lemme know ur thoughts!</p><p>(just fyi, this will be the last fic from me for a lil while, i think! Thankyou all so much to everyone for always being so nice! if u wanna follow me on tumblr for updates just use the link up there! &lt;3)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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